On This, Our Anniversary
by Dala1
Summary: Opening my eyes, I see his face very close to mine. He smiles sadly. "Happy anniversary," he whispers, kissing me before getting up.


Title: On This, Our Anniversary  
Author: Dala  
Rating: R for language and bit of sex  
Pairing: Ron Weasley/Draco Malfoy  
Archive: Ask me if you'd like it  
Series: fourth "The Glutton and the Heretic" cycle, newly named :)  
Feedback: Pretty pretty please  
Disclaimer: The characters and situations of this fanfic belong to J.K. Rowling and Co, I'm making no profits from this, etc.  
Warning: Story features same-sex couple snuggling, snogging, shagging, and discussing marriage. If you have a problem with that, get off at this stop.  
Acknowldgement/Dedicated: of and to Mad Maudlin and Timothy Kohl (estrella), who betaed this here ficlet and did a high-falutin' gol-darn great job (I am not a hillbilly. Most of the time). Also dedicated to all the shipmates of the S.S. Prince and Pauper, who're a fun bunch of people! Thanks, guys. Title credit goes to Timothy Kohl, thank you for that dahlin!  
  
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I can feel him in bed beside me, not touching but there just the same. Why is he still here? He's usually dressed and ready for work by the time I'm awake. I sniff, but there are no breakfast smells to greet me. What occasion is this?  
  
Oh. I remember now.   
  
Opening my eyes, I see his face very close to mine. He smiles sadly. "Happy anniversary," he whispers, kissing me before getting up.  
  
Damn, I can't believe I'd forgotten. It's the Day. It is November 16th, the date we moved into together five years ago. It is also the day Harry Potter killed Voldemort, giving his own life in the process, and our official day of mourning for him and all the others killed in the war. So many dead. Two of Ron's brothers, many of his friends along with Potter, both my parents (though truth be told, I lost them long before).  
  
On the 16th of November, we both take the day off, no matter how the Bosses might plead their case. Being home is far more important.  
  
I know he's at the fireplace right now, talking to someone he loves.  
  
Stretching, I implore my body to leave its warm nest and pad into the kitchen. As I pass the parlor, I see the face in the fire: Hermione. Not surprising. She looks sad and exhausted. The road to hell -- or Minister of Magic -- is paved with good intentions, but for all the satisfaction she gets out of fulfilling her ambitions, Hermione is a very lonely woman. It may be time to fix her up with someone again. Not that she has ever *appreciated* the men I've found for her.   
  
I wonder what Potter would be doing now, had he lived. I'm sure they would have wanted him for Minister, but he'd have turned them down. Probably he'd be an Auror like us. An expected turn of events, unlike my own choice of profession, which raised some eyebrows. But hey, I spent an entire childhood learning dark magic, I might as well put that knowledge to some use.   
  
I bang the pans a little to let him know I'm fixing breakfast. Same thing every year: chocolate-chip pancakes, two eggs over-easy, sausage, an orange, and coffee with five sugars. His favorite breakfast foods, for which he can always find time. It's amazing how he manages to keep that figure with the way he eats.  
  
While the second pair of pancakes is browning, he comes in and sits at the table. I do love this flat. It's small, but I prefer it that way -- after Malfoy Manor and Hogwarts, I appreciate being able to walk from one end to the other of my home without getting winded or lost. And it's very comfortable, full of my good taste and his presence.  
  
I can feel his eyes on me and I show off a bit, reaching up to the highest shelf to grab some nameless utensil, favoring him with a very nice view of my ass. When I turn around his face is solemn, but his eyes are warm.  
  
Going over to him, I wrap my arms around his shoulders from behind. He reaches up to grasp my forearms, holding me there. His damnably red hair tickles the side of my neck. Needs a cutting. Some men look good with long hair; Ron Weasley does not happen to be one of them. He lets out a sigh and I hug him tighter. He works too hard; we can both feel the weariness in his bones. I work when the Ministry needs me. He works whenever he can.  
  
"I invited Hermione over for dinner," he says. I nod. They should be together on this day. If he's going to be all mopey and sad, *she* can deal with him.  
  
I start to pull away so I can tend the cooking, but his grip tightens. I blow in his ear. "Pancakes are burning, idiot."  
  
"Let them burn," he says softly. We both fall quiet. He finds the ring on my finger and twists it idly. I look down at our intertwined hands. It's a beautiful ring, I'll give him that. I insisted on silver because it suits my coloring, and he would have been content to get the same, but I wouldn't allow it. Gold suits *his* coloring, and God knows that after half a lifetime of dressing the way he did, he needs someone to look after his appearance. Can't have him embarrassing me, after all. So we have matching rings that just happen to differ in color.   
  
Like so many other things about us.  
  
We haven't even discussed the date, or who we'll invite, or what the ceremony will entail. Even after nine years together, I'm still a little skittish about the whole marriage thing. Of course I'm committed *now*, and I don't plan on going anywhere, and yet . . . marriage is the ultimate commitment, with its own massive stigma, and really, what sort of example do I have to guide me? *His* parents at least love one another.   
  
Life has been so busy in these post-Voldemort days, rounding up the Dark ones, both his followers and some imitators. We're apart often, on separate assignments, sometimes at opposite ends of the earth, often for weeks at a time. But I can feel it starting to slow down, the wizarding world breathing relief from the threat of rebellion and settling back into a normal routine. What'll we do when the jobs come further apart? What if living together, *really* living together, and being fucking *married* is just too much?  
  
I pull back and this time he lets me go.  
  
Inspecting the pancakes, I find them burned beyond salvation. The earlier batch is now cold. Fantastic start to the day. I decide to abandon the eggs, sausage and fruit and instead I pour coffee for us both.  
  
I sit down next to him, close enough for our knees to touch. He murmurs his thanks and sips slowly, steam from the mug dampening his shaggy bangs. How many times I've run my fingers through that dratted thick mass, I couldn't begin to count. It looks like cayenne pepper to me this morning, red with its power. I can see the tiny crow's feet at the corners of his eyes. I really should make him use that anti-wrinkle potion I've perfected. I don't care if he *does* make fun of me, I still maintain that I am merely *cautious* and not *paranoid* about my looks.  
  
"Ron," I find myself saying softly. He looks up at me, one cayenne-red -- yes, I do like that characterization -- eyebrow raised in question.  
  
I continue with words I've wanted to ask for a long, long time. "Why did you choose this date? To -- to ask me to live with you?"  
  
He sighs and leans back in the chairs, his long legs stretching out under the table. "I don't know. I guess . . ." Steepling his fingers over his coffee mug, he stares down into the black liquid. I look at it too. It offers nothing, nor does my own cream-lightened cup.  
  
"Was it just missing Harry?" I am always, always careful to call him Harry out loud. Ron almost flattened me that one time I said Potter, even though the Boy Wonder and I made our peace in the end, even though I called him Potter, and he called me Malfoy, as he lay dying. I cradled the head of my arch-nemesis in my lap when he left this world, his blood soaking into my robes, still wondering how I'd gotten dragged into the whole mess. But Ron doesn't like to hear about that.  
  
"Partly," he replies slowly. "I wanted . . . Remembering Harry, knowing how I never got the chance to tell him how much he meant to me, I suppose I wanted to keep you close by, so I'd never *have* to tell you."  
  
Of course you've never had to tell me, love. I've always known.  
  
Aloud, I say, "He knew how much you loved him." Yes, that was true, he had. And I wonder, not for the first time, what it would have been like if I hadn't insulted Ron at our very first meeting, if the Terrible Trio had been a quartet instead. Would things have turned out differently? Would the two of us together been such as shock that best friends didn't speak for years, years that turned out to be the last for one of them? Would Potter, perhaps, still be alive? Would I somehow have gotten there faster, figured out some way to help him that didn't require his life's blood, if he'd been *my* friend?  
  
I will be plagued by doubt about things like this for the rest of my life. People who believe in destiny, the sodding fools, don't know how lucky they are.  
  
He reaches out to grip my hand, suddenly, and kisses me with more fervor than the morning calls for. Not that I'm complaining. We rise and stumble into the bedroom, me walking backwards, tripping over the rug. And then we fall onto the bed. He rolls me on top of him and lies still, waiting. Needing to be loved. Once I'm inside him, I am startled anew by the feel of it, the rhythm, the fit, the bloody *rightness*. We may grow old, but the sex never will.  
  
Climax arrives gently and without dramatic pretense. I lie with my head cushioned on his chest, rising and falling, his breathing in perfect synchronization with my own. Not sleeping, not thinking, just . . . resting. It is a morning when we want the quiet and the familiar comfort of each other.  
  
"I do love you, Draco," he whispers.  
  
"And I love you," I say solemnly, with none of the pet names I have invented over the years.  
  
We don't *need* to say it, because we know it like the beating of each other's heart. But sometimes, it's good to hear anyway.  
~~~~~~~~ 


End file.
